As far as mothers go, you can’t do much better than Jacqui. If you can’t base at least a novella on the relationship with your mother, her chablis drinking tendencies and inability to sensor what she says to your nearest and dearest then you haven’t really got a mother at all as far as I’m concerned. I mentally started this blog the moment I walked down the stairs in time to over hear her telling my English rose, butter wouldn’t melt friend Ali that she didn’t understand why these girls (waving a hand towards the rolling credits of Embarrassing Bodies on the kitchen televsion) think it’s ok to appear to the nation with their labia’s hanging down to their knees. “It is like they thought they could get away with just swinging it over their shoulder up until this point”. There was a look of pure ecstatic joy in Ali’s eye. It could have been distress.
It was the same look I had caught once before in a rear view mirror of mum’s car years earlier. At the end of my first year of university Jacqui offered to drive my fresh out of the university oven friend Vince and I back down to London. Having moments earlier warned him to lock up his profanities for the five hour trip, his eyes were watering with material as Jacqui hit the M1 and announced that we would be listening to The Vagina Monologues on CD for the entire journey back. For Vince, it was love.
There is something about Jacqui, and perhaps this hasn’t been the most rounded introduction to the woman who granted me life but this is the woman who just lifted up her top to flash my dad on Skpe in the kitchen in front of a now very horrified looking eighteen year old brother. “Oooooh la la” Dad’s voice rattles out of the speakers “but Jacqui, best not, I’m in the office”.
No comments:
Post a Comment